Slower, Slower
by began-to-climb
Summary: Eastern Promises. It's been five years since Nikolai walked away from Anna to become London's crime boss. And now he's returned to her, but for what? Will be changed to M for later chapters.
1. Prologue

**Name: **Slower, Slower

**Rating: **PG-13 (soon to be R)

**Summary: **It's been five years since Anna Khitrova met Nikolai Luzhin, since she wrangled into his business, and since she adopted a daughter, Christine. She has nurtured the child like any mother, staying out of the shadowed family (as Nikolai asked). One day, Nikolai pops back into her life, as he's done so many times before. What could he possibly want with her?

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any of these characters, except for a couple cameo appearances. And all the lyrics are from the song _Run_, by Snow Patrol; the lyrics belong to them.

**Authors Note: **I thought this film was vastly under appreciated. It was a stupendous film with some superb acting and is not given enough credit for its risqué scenes.

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_I'll sing it one last time for you  
Then we really have to go  
You've been the only thing that's right  
In all I've done_

She felt it the moment his fingers fell on hers.

That she wasn't going to piece him together. That she wasn't going to know anything about him.

Not immediately. Maybe not ever.

His behavior was as mixed as his facial expressions; his charming generosity as misinterpreted as his tongue; his eyes as blank and empty as the space that explained his association with the _vory_ _v zakone_.

The rough angles of his cheekbones, jut of his jaw, observance of his eyes made him impossible to read, especially in the haunting port light of the night. She watched him carefully as he cradled Christine's small head in his palm, slender fingers brushing her hair. He cooed softly, painting a cross as he blessed her in Russian.

He swayed lightly on his feet, closing the sliver between their trembling bodies, scathingly unprotected against the dawning January wind. A wet strand of unslicked hair—colored ebony verses the silver fox in the daylight—licked her forehead as his eyes found hers. For a second, her breath hitched in her throat, the burn bringing her to tears.

His trance was broken in brevity as his attention flickered to her lips, switching back like being caught would earn him further infliction to his already marred body. Yet, she saw and not a word of rebuttal was uttered from her suddenly thick throat. Ever so tentatively, he leaned in and took her lips, the tenderness of the kiss catching her off guard.

He was quite alarming.

Compliant to any response, he was hesitant, as if at any moment expecting her to unreel and pop him harder and quicker than a blade across the gut. He was bidding farewell, respectfully never forcing a certain reaction; a kiss between the prison bars, a true hello and good-bye, monitored by the voice behind them.

Their lips faded from each other reluctantly, agonizingly, failed. Eyes still closed, he pressed his forehead to hers, holding the stirring baby. He collapsed, a torn man clutched to each side insecurely. Could he, possibly, be less crass, ruthless, and heartless as his employers?

Was he human enough to choose the right and wrong side?

"Dasvidania, Anna Ivanovna," he bid in a whisper, gazing down at her.

She smiled, huffing a breath of laughter, and repeated the word, though inaudible.

A beat passed in near silence, only the sound of his friend's buffoonery in exchange. Then, chin tucked into his chest, Nikolai Luzhin brushed past her, the ocean's wind whipping her furiously. She bit her bottom lip, nestling Christine close, depositing a reassuring kiss on her temple as she sniffed back tears.

Why did she care so much that he was leaving?

He paused behind her, one foot on the step, faltering in consideration. Whether he was weighing the consequences of trooping on, or envisioning the future he was walking away from, another cry from Kirill kept him walking, as obedient as the dog he was bred as.

Anna Khitrova stood alone by the ocean, too shaken to turn around, counting the cobblestone footsteps.

XXXX

**A/N: **There's the prologue. I know this chapter was basically a literary play on the ending scene, but it has significance later in the story. Please review, because that is the only way this story will continue.


	2. Chapter I

**Authors Note: **First off, thank you to everyone that reviewed the prologue. It was very kind of you. Secondly, I am on Spring Break, currently, but I will be taking a mini vacation later this week so I will try my hardest to update before I leave. And thirdly (and lastly), I had originally planned to make this chapter longer, to accompany the later scene, but I can't seem to write that scene. But it will be up shortly, promise.

Thus, here's chapter one. I hope you enjoy it.

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_And I can barely look at you  
But every single time I do  
I know we'll make it anywhere  
Away from here_

Light up, light up  
As if you have a choice  
Even if you cannot hear my voice  
I'll be right beside you dear

The windows, perched within the nook between the outside and the brick walls, stretched the eye through the gaggle of buildings, rotting with graffiti, to garish London. The mid-December wind howled in warning, overcast sky so dense that the silhouettes of the merged clouds were undistinguishable. The glass panels were pressured in distaste, trembling in protest. The most repetitive of sounds filled the still hallway, muffling the bedlam at the other end.

Anna meandered down the hall, choosing to stare at the tile floor, preoccupied, subconsciously fiddling with the keys stuffed in her coat pocket. The teeth of the house key scraped against her gnawed nail, the lucky rabbit's foot grazing warmly across her wrist.

The quiet tranquility of the endemic hospital wing that served such a purpose was temporary as she came upon the nurse's desk, passing the elevators, which dinged as doctors, nurses, patients and family alike loaded and depleted from the steel boxes in the early afternoon hours. Visiting hours lasted for just another half-hour; those taking the opportunity hurried about, while those employed to enforce the rules observed the scene from behind the safety of the counter.

Breezing around the counter, towards the lengthy corridor of cracked rooms rather than the escape leading out the front door, Anna glanced up and met the eyes of the head nurse on the ward, flashing her a fast smile before trooping on. The woman, sagaciousness alluded at by wrinkles, returned to filing her medical charts without a second thought of the midwife.

The second door on the right; 314. Anna paused outside the room, peaking through the shapely window into the life of another, and set her motorcycle helmet on the floor, nudging it under the mobile bed stationed against the vanilla goose bumped wall. Then she pulled the hair tie from her yellow hair, rolling it onto her wrist, under the cuff of her coat.

Breathing in deeply, she slipped into the room, turning on a bright smile.

"Anna," the woman sitting on the wind seat exclaimed upon spotting her visitor.

Anna beamed at the woman, rushing over to join her. "Hey Chloe," she replied, leaning in to kiss the woman's cheek.

Chloe, colored like a piece of milk chocolate, wasn't what she appeared at first sight, with her pearl smile and immaculately cut mocha bob that brimmed at her chin. With wit and sarcasm to match, she was a pistol, the student who knew all the answers and had the energy to back it up. If there were ever a real Miranda Bailey, she'd hold the title without question.

Not to mention she was quite the fashionista in comparison to most of her fellow nurses, with her pristine uniform and choice of earrings. The attachments of herself, as she called them, were more of an obsession than an attempt to look pretty. Both simple and flirtatious or elegant and sophisticated, she had a pair for every day of the year.

"How are you feeling?" Anna asked casually, resting her hand on the head of the newborn boy cuddled to Chloe's chest.

Chloe, circles chauffeuring her eyes and make-up worn thin, brushed a strand of her hair away, knuckles knocking against the three-strand chandeliers dangling at her cheek. "I'm fine. Tired."

Anna nodded; she would be, having just had her first child not five hours ago. Her thumb lightly stroked the baby's soft puff, his hands clamoring to be freed from the blue blankets. "He's beautiful. Seven pounds, one ounce. Twenty-one inches. Big brown eyes. His daddy's nose and mommy's lips."

"He looks like his dad." Chloe mentioned, gazing down at her son adoringly, seemingly satisfied with the notion.

"That's not so bad. I guess his brother or sister will have to be the heart-breaker of the family." Anna joked, stealing a peak at Chloe, who just stared, lips pursed menacingly.

"Hardy-har, missy." Anna shrugged. "Would you like to know his name?"

"Of course."

Shifting closer to Anna, Chloe extended the baby out, displaying him proudly. "Anna, meet Nicholas Percy Jones. Nicholas, meet your godmother, Anna."

The name was not lost to Anna. She looked up at her childhood friend, countenance blank, hiding the ramification of the resemblance. How odd it seemed that Chloe would have chosen _that_ name. But Anna remained indifference under the eyes of ignorance and avoidance. She turned back to the child, who gurgled a bubble on his red lips, and pretended to not have noticed anything out of the ordinary.

Because, really, how was Chloe to know? It meant nothing to her and, with the knowledge of nothing, would remain as so.

"Hello, Nicholas," she cooed. "Will Nicholas be making an appearance at the party tomorrow night?"

Chloe snorted. "Of course. He wouldn't miss it for the world. Even if I have to hang Cappie by her toes to let us go."

Anna canted her head to her shoulder, looking at the woman with suspiciously arched eyebrows. But Chloe shrugged; the words weren't exactly empty. "I don't know. She was outside filing charts when I came in. You know how she is. Everything has to be in order. Including her staff-turned-patients."

"I can take her." Chloe said without a hitch of hesitance. The two women giggled. "How's Christine?"

"Good. Glorious. I'm meeting her and my mother at the park soon, so…"

And she smiled, one that split her face into two hemispheres, cutting from ear to ear. "Well, tell Christine happy birthday for me." Chloe said later.

"You can tell her tomorrow, when it actually is her birthday."

"All right. God, I still can't believe you became the mom first. And I can't believe she's turning five. It feels like just yesterday you brought her home."

Anna nodded; didn't she know it. "Yes. It is hard to believe."

The door opened behind them, fluorescent light flooding the beige room temporarily, and in strutted Chloe's husband, a bouquet of flowers in one hand, a cup of coffee with steam rising from the surface in the other. Timothy Jones, a man of rich color, donning a business suit paired with a crimson tie, laid the bouquet on the extendable table swung over the tousled bed and sipped his coffee.

"They didn't have decaf in the machine downstairs," he promulgated irritably.

Chloe frowned sympathetically. "I'm sorry. We don't have great coffee here, I warned you."

"I know, I know." Timothy mumbled, clearly just as tired as his wife though taking it with stones rather than in stride.

Anna quirked an eyebrow at him. "Hello, Anna," he bid, noticing her for the first time.

"Hello, Timothy," she reciprocated.

"How are you? Missed you in the delivery room," he inquired, the light overhead catching on the halo encasing his finger.

"Yes. I had an emergency C-section that I had to assist. A woman was hit by a car crossing the street on a red light. The driver busted the light and plowed right into her. The boyfriend was practically in inconsolable."

"That's terrible." Chloe gasped, face churned in disgust. "The people in this city sometimes."

Anna shrugged. It couldn't be helped. Timothy strode over, styrofoam cup abandoned on the counter shoved to the side of the room, and leaned over Anna to kiss his wife, the couple exchanging a tantalizingly sweet smile and secret hello, then placed a kiss on Nicholas' temple.

"You have a fine son, Timothy." Anna stated, attempting to unbury herself from under Timothy.

Abruptly, Nicholas began to fuss, eyes squinting, cheeks marooning. Chloe sighed, exasperated, and began to bounce the boy in her arms, shoving a hand on Timothy's shoulder for distance. The man took several steps back, watching motherhood in awe, before spinning on his heel and moving back towards the bed.

"He cries like Timothy too." Chloe told Anna pointedly, missing her husband's scowl from the other side of the room.

Anna smiled. Timothy tossed a battered copy of Fyodor Dostoesvsky's _Crime and Punishment_ from his briefcase onto the bed, digging in his pocket for his cell phone. Sliding it to unlock, he fished through the phone. Within a split second, a string of Beethoven's Fifth Concerto began to float through the four walls.

Chloe smiled gratefully as Nicholas gradually quieted down, soothed in his mother's arms by the gentle harmony of the virtuoso piano chords. "So, Anna,"—Chloe began after a moment—"when are you going to settle down? Find a man, give Christine siblings."

The abominable question. Not so uncommon with married couple. Anna smiled good-naturedly, wedging her right index finger into Nicholas' quarter-sized palm. "I suppose when the time is right."

"You better hurry. Most of us good ones are gone." Timothy said as he fluffed a pillow on the bed, bassinet pushed away for access.

"True."

"If they're not already married, they're either in jail, obsessed with something, or in the _vory_ _v zakone_," he continued.

Chloe's doe eyes suddenly flickered up to Anna, waiting for her shift of reaction that should have come like clockwork, but Anna remained passive and unfazed, withdrawing a slight smile. "I wouldn't say that." Anna refuted softly.

Almost too softly.

"Anna, please. Those men have infected this city. They're everywhere. It seems like any time I am in this hospital, one of them is around, just a step ahead. They're like a disease, polluting everything with nothing but crime and death. I mean, look what they did to that Professor Hobbs at St. Mary's. He was killed." Timothy took a breath, weighed down by the recent event that had clouded everyone's opinions of the underground men in black. He shook his head. "They're not good men. Even with that new leader, what's his name."

_Nikolai._ Anna wanted to say his name, to correct Timothy, but couldn't. She hadn't been able to in years. _Nikolai._ "Maybe they're not as bad as we all think they are." Hopefully.

Chloe sighed again. "Anna—"

"I should go," the fair-headed woman interrupted, slipping away from mother and child, climbing to her feet with haste. "Your child is beautiful, Chloe. I expect to see you tomorrow night." Practically running for the door, she only paused beside Timothy, laying a hand on his arm to bid him farewell.

She had her hand on the doorknob, halfway out the door and praying for the hallway, when Chloe stopped her in her tracks, able to like so many times before. "Anna,"—She froze, helpless to do much else—"be careful who you trust."

She didn't respond, didn't acknowledge or demur in any way, shape or form. For she was out the door before her mind could even come up with a somewhat decent response spoken in a reasonably calm voice. She knew that leaving so abruptly, and not even the slightest subtlety, was rude manners, was uncalled for in that situation, but it had been that very situation that had her running for the hills so many times before.

It was a peculiar thing. That just someone beginning to talk about him, without his name even being mentioned, could have such an effect on her. What's more, it wasn't even the reaction of a scorned lover left cold in the winter, but of heated anger for him doing just what he did. Left her. She hadn't even wanted anything to do with him, with any of it, but it happened.

It happened to her. He happened to her.

Yet, if she weren't fooling herself into the excuse of anger, she would be able to admit why people bringing up the man with the newspaper-plastered face and tattoos made so notorious caused her to run. Left her with the so many questions that had kept her company.

Four years, eleven months and eighteen days had passed since that night with him. And, if she were real with herself, she would understand that Nikolai Luzhin was more than just a stranger.

She was that scorned woman.

But it was not of love forgotten or abandoned that had scorned her. It was possibility neglected and surrendered.

And only one man was to fault.

XXXX

**A/N: **By the way, I finally watched A History of Violence last night. And, despite David Cronenberg's signature of ending a film on the dot, I have to say that I liked Eastern Promises better. The film was great and all…I just couldn't see Viggo as anyone but Nikolai.


	3. Chapter II

**Authors Note: **I'm sorry for the delay on this chapter; I was out of town, as I said I would be. Here's a couple things to say before you continue. Towards the end, there is an implication of something I took from another piece of fanfiction; the idea of Nikolai's armor, as written in _Armor_ by Kris. So that small piece goes to the writer.

Also, here's some Russian vocabulary to be aware of:

**Pozh** **Aluista: **Please

**Babochka: **Butterfly

**Yzeveeneete: **Excuse Me

And with that in mind, enjoy. And review.

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_Something always brings me back to you_

_It never takes too long_

_No matter what I say or do,_

_I still feel you here till the moment I'm gone_

_-Gravity, Sara Bareilles_

"Enchanters! Enchantresses! Your gold makes you seem wise: the morning mist within your grounds more proudly rolls, more softly rolls. Yet spake yon purple mountain, yet said yon ancient wood, that night or day, that love or crime…"

Helen Khitrova fingered the tattered book, pressed down in her lap, in her hands, subconsciously carving her thumb over the dog-eared creases, the parchment texture scratching. The red ribbon that tumbled out of the clasped other half of the book flowed over her leg. Her red hair was a curtain over her face as her reciting of the poem came to an abrupt stop, breaking apart the words of Ralph Waldo Emerson.

There was no silence in her pause. Casually strewn on one of the peripheral park benches, her voice was drowned by the havoc surrounding her and her companion. Mid-afternoon traffic wheezed around them, exhaust filling their air, horns going off, pedestrians dotting the already crowded sidewalks. The London park was rampant at this point of the day, when the sun was usually high in the clouds and the winter wind was a tender breeze, when it was a moment of pleasantry.

Children adorned in fluorescent parkas and fuzzed ear muffs chased one another about the sand boxes and jungle gym, waving their gloved arms in the air, scarves trailing after them like caps of superheroes. Adults chatted idly with each other, just as interested in playground gossip as the next person, huddled close with tilted heads. A procession of strollers and bicycles were parked in a pile on the sidelines, out of way, out of the line of destruction.

Helen sighed heavily, looking up for the first time in a decade of an hour, uncrossing her legs then switching. She closed the book in her lap, spying her espresso-curled granddaughter ducking under the blue slide and following another girl with sun-kissed hair up the ladder to the left tower. She smiled, pleased that a girl with no knowledge of her birth was able to live with normalcy.

Her eyes found her companion, like a statue close beside her, and her smile fell. "Anna, are you all right?"

Anna flinched. Blinking several times to reverse from the trance she had subdued herself to, she glanced over at her mother, who wore a countenance of concern for her only child. She had to force a smile there, despite the thoughts lying dormant at the moment in her mind.

"Yes. I'm fine," she said, attempting to sound upbeat. "Why?"

Her mother was none the wiser. And chose to ignore the rest. "What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing important. Why did you stop reading?" she wondered aloud, furrowed eyebrows pointed down at the book.

Helen smiled. "The words do not interest you as they once did, my dear."

"I'm sorry, Mom."

"It's all right. You've grown out of being read to. Though it works wonders on Christine."

Anna smiled at the strawberry woman, leaning over and pressing her head to hers as she linked arms. She breathed in deeply, content in her position. She scanned the sprinkled land of color.

"Where is she anyway?"

Helen pointed ever-so-subtly off in the distance, where Christine had just disappeared behind a tall father who was helping his child onto the short dais to the rubber stairs. "There. She's playing with Emily's daughter."

"Oh?" Anna looked around the park, searching for Emily Montgomery, their neighbor with as many affairs as jobs. Not exactly the best environment for an almost-five-year-old to be exposed to so early.

Helen patted her daughter's hand, noting the worry suddenly seeping over her features. "She'll be all right. Don't worry so much."

"But—" The raised eyebrow cut Anna's refute short. "If you say so."

"I do say so." Helen teased. Anna rolled her eyes. The women fell into a silence momentarily, bundled together, Helen rearranging the blanket over their thawing legs. "How is Chloe? Did she have her baby yet?"

Anna, who had snatched her lemonade from the pavement under her feet, hummed excitedly. She withdrew the straw from her lips in time to say, "Yes. This morning, actually. A boy."

Helen gasped, exaltation powering over her face. "Marvelous. Does he have a name yet?"

"Nicholas."

The gaiety slipped instantly at the name, at its comparability. Mother reacted opposite of daughter. There was no indifference at the word, no spacial silence, no placid overpass. For Helen uttered an, "oh" then shook her head, as if ridding herself of the thought of the man, of _that_ man.

If only all could be forgotten and he would be Casper just like she wished. If only he never existed. If only they thought he never existed.

If only, if only, if only.

"Well, that's nice," she praised. "It's a nice name. A strong name."

"Yes." Anna concurred. No objection. Nothing added.

Helen cleared her throat. "New topic," she announced, hence forth, clapping her hands together over the neglected book. "Will Chloe and the new baby be joining us for the festivities tomorrow night?"

Anna nodded. "Has Christine said anything to you about that?"

"No, why?" Helen stole a peak at her daughter.

"She was just asking me yesterday what she was supposed to wear for it. I wasn't even aware she knew about the party. So I was wondering if she'd said anything to you."

"Well, no, she hasn't. That's peculiar though. How do you suppose she found out?"

Anna shrugged. "My guess is Uncle. But he's been quite scarce this week. Perhaps she figured it out."

"Anna, she's not even five yet. I doubt it. But, if she did, she's going to be one smart girl."

"Beauty and brains. I'm going to have my hands full." Anna stated with a sigh, resigning. She indeed was.

Helen patted her hand again. "You'll do great. You're already amazing."

Anna gazed up at her mother. Her face was weathered by the years, words speaking her own tales of raising a child on her own. Her husband dead, her brother off to war…so many travesties had befallen her and, yet, here she sat, strong as ever, coaching the daughter she almost never had with the child she was given instead of the one that was stolen. After the hardships, after the wars, after the rebellion and crime, all had fallen into place and there was little to derail it now.

"I love you, Mom." Anna whispered.

"I know."

Heads lain together, they turned their attention to the gradually thinning out park. Christine suddenly cantered up to them, sand flying up from underneath her as she hopped over the wooden railing, parting from the pack of galloping and laughing neighborhood children. She skidded to a halt, nearly toppling into the pair, arms stretched to stop her.

She giggled profusely, one hand clamped over her mouth to hide the grin. She was exactly the child she should be, Anna realized in that moment: giggly, overjoyed, carefree.

Christine Khitrova tugged at her mom's hand, curls washing over her back as she looked back and forth from Anna to the playground. "Mommy, come push me on the swing. Pozh aluista!"

Anna stood with a final yank, complying with Christine's every want and need. "Yes, yes. Mom, come on."

Helen took Christine's other hand, the women lifting her into the air simultaneously and swinging her up and over the railing, and together they made their way across the park, through the madness of dashing children, to the swings on the far right side of the park. Christine disbanded from the tripod, taking a running leap for the middle swing, and situated herself, hands grasping the link chains, before Anna and Helen joined her.

"Ready?" Helen asked, grabbing the rubber seat and lifting it close to her chest.

Anna bit her lip from her squatted position in front of Christine, digital camera now in her hand, finger poised over the trigger to snap any worthy moment on film. Christine nodded, giggling in anticipation, and flew through the air a split second later, squealing at the top of her lungs as she sailed into the air, completely weightless.

The chains clinked noisily as she swayed to and fro, fighting the friction, gaining momentum and altitude the more Helen pushed. Christine held onto the chains, oblivious to the cutting pinches in her palms, as she was too high on adrenaline as she went higher and higher.

Picture after picture was snapped, Anna laughing along with Christine. "Mommy, look at me," the little girl screamed from above Anna's head. "Look how high I am!"

Anna smiled and nodded at Christine's pride, eyes trailing her as she breezed back down to earth, lifting above Helen before the woman pushed her again, sending her back into the air. The camera shutters snapped again. "Babochka, look here," she instructed, peering through the viewfinder.

With that, Christine waved. As she soared backward, contorting Anna's vision of the background, Anna swore she saw something; a mirage of her memories. Someone, standing in the distance, leaning on a nearby fence, dosed in black, eyes fixated on the portrait of a family.

She blinked, trying to depict what she felt she saw. Was it a hallucination, a trick the mind was playing? Or was it—he—real? She stood, staring at what could not be identified accurately, seemingly fascinated by the unknown as her unflinching attention interpreted. She kept wondering, was it real?

Except, as she continued to gawk and observe, the mirage lifted his hand to his lips, sticking the cigarette in his left hand between his lips, eyes meeting hers from across the park. Her breath snagged.

It was real. He was real.

She heard herself utter a yzeveeneete, stuffing the camera in her jean pocket, and began to walk towards him, completely uncommunicative with her two companions watching her in puzzlement. She never even heard Christine call to her.

She knew as her steps carried her closer and closer, that she shouldn't be moving. Her rational side screamed at her to not go, that this was wrong, that he was wrong to go to. But his pull was as magnetic as she remembered it.

She swallowed as she crossed the park, passing the curious looks of the other parents, wringing her hands together. Nearer and nearer, she drew, finally escaping her shock to inspect him.

Nikolai Luzhin, after almost five years, had changed little. His hair was still silver like the sky above their heads, he still watched the world with a turned cheek behind Armani sunglasses, and he still had that expression that was so mixed with emotion that he was that man.

Spattered amongst dazed smoke, remnants of the balanced cigarette were limp against his side, adding to his air of what others correctly perceived as mafia mentality. After all, he was a parvenu, the new "don," despite a prince.

As she came up to him, slowing what she hadn't realized was a hurried walk, he straightened and she, for the first time, saw how much he was disguised, jacket of tattoos gone from the naked eye, armor returned to place.

She hugged her arms in the updraft, hair unruly, uninterested in being detained. "What are you doing here?" she asked him.

Nikolai tossed his cigarette onto the sidewalk, just missing a nearby trash can. "How are you, Anna?"

"You left us standing. That's all my mother could ask for." Anna replied with a hint of bitterness.

That familiar humor of anger was beginning to rise in her chest.

Nikolai nodded, not breaking his icily character. "You look good."

"Thank you. You didn't answer my question."

"And what was that?"

"What are you doing here? You obviously didn't come to get fresh air."

Nikolai stripped off his sunglasses, letting them dangle between his fingers, and stared down at her, sizing her up like a fighter did with his opponent. She definitely hadn't changed; she was just as stubborn and forceful. He had to resist a laugh.

"What would you know of me, Anna? Perhaps I wanted scenery," he answered, voice dripping with his heavy Russian accent.

Anna's eyes narrowed. He was wasting her time, wasting her energy. She bit the inside of her lip, furious with this…this man. Where did he come off distracting her? Why was he even here?

"I'm sorry to have seen you." Then she turned around, fist clenched, and walked away, headed back for the park and to her family.

"You have nothing to say to me?" Nikolai called.

Anna whirled around, arms flailing out, incredulous. "Anything to say to you? No, I don't. I've said all I've wanted to say to you."

"That cannot be."

Pressing her lips together, she trooped back up to him, staring him dead in the eye. "And how would you know that? You can't always tell what people are thinking."

Nikolai waited for something else, whatever scathing remark was to follow, but when there was none to follow, he looked over his left shoulder. Anna followed his train to see a black Mercedes, the signature car, sitting on the curb, steam puffing from the back. For a man whose job was once to drive royalty, he now rarely left the house alone, unprotected. That much was obvious.

He turned back to her. "It is imperative that I speak with you."

She watched him, recognizing that not a falter crossed his features at the request. She nodded despite herself, dropping her arms from their defiantly crossed position. Without a single word, a sharp point stabbing the pad of her palm, he grabbed her hand and pulled her to him, lips on her ear, warm breath startling the anger from her. They stood like that for a moment too long, lingering, wrongly acting.

"She's beautiful," he breathed before unleashing her hand and walking away with a wave of his coat, head held high, not looking back.

She watched as he descended into the sleek black car, vanishing from view, and turned the note with her fingers. The car disappeared, molding into the traffic. He was undoubtedly the man in the backseat instead of the man behind the wheel.

Anna bit her lip for the hundredth time, dropping her head to her shoulder, staring down at the neatly creased paper. Her fingers shook as she unfolded it. In the center, scribbled in swayed cursive, was: _The Rookery, 8:30, restaurant._ Stuffing the note in her coat pocket, she turned to rejoin her family, only to find Helen eyeing her intently. She forced a tired, nonchalant smile.

"What did he want?" Helen asked once Anna had returned to her, referring to the tête-à-tête that she had witnessed.

Anna shrugged, taking Christine's hand. "Nothing. Ready to go home, babochka?"

The small girl nodded. "Who was that man, Mommy?"

Helen listened expectantly for the bang of the beginning. But Anna said little. "Someone I used to know. I'll tell you of him one day."

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**A/N: **Thank you for reading. Please review.


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